by Dale Brown
“Fortunately for you Mack, I don’t. Dismissed. Everybody go get some sleep. A few of us are so sleep deprived we’re starting to become delusional.”
Dreamland
0100 (1400, Karachi)
THE GUARD SNAPPED TO ATTENTION, RECOGNIZING ZEN AS soon as he got off the elevator.
Then again, how many people on the base were in wheelchairs?
“Major Catsman inside?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Zen locked his wheelchair and raised himself up to look into the retina scan. The doors to the Dreamland Command Center flew open, and Zen wheeled himself into the arena-style situation room that helped coordinate Whiplash missions.
“Zen, what are you doing here?” Catsman’s eyes were even more droopy than normal.
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d find out what’s going on over there.”
“Officially, you should be back home in bed.”
“I am. Off the record, tell me what you can.”
Catsman gave him an abbreviated version of the day’s events.
“It’s only going to get worse,” she added, with uncharacteristic pessimism. “Now we’re just monkeys in the middle out there.”
Zen knew he should be there. He could feel it, a magnetic force pulling him. The hell with the experiments—the hell with everything but Breanna.
Maybe the dreams were omens. He couldn’t lose her, not for anything.
“I wouldn’t worry about her.”
“Huh? About Bree? I’m not worried,” said Zen.
“She’s a hell of a pilot.”
“Damn straight. Only pilot I trust.” Zen forced himself to smile. “I just wanted to know, you know, what was up. Thanks for telling me.”
He was a bit too nervous for her, wasn’t he? It wasn’t that he didn’t think she knew what she was doing, or that she couldn’t take care of herself.
Maybe it was time to go back home, get some rest. Clear his head.
“How are the treatments going?” Catsman asked.
“They’re going,” Zen said, wheeling himself back up the ramp.
Iran
12 January 1998
1900
CAPTAIN SATTARI EYED THE BIG AIRCRAFT ON THE NEARBY ramp, waiting for the last gear to be loaded aboard. Already, two of his submarines had been loaded into its belly through a bay originally intended to hold search and rescue boats. Their crewmen and ten of Sattari’s guerrillas waited inside.
At nearly 150 feet long, the A-40 Albatross was one of the biggest flying boats ever made, and the only jet-powered one to enter regular service. This particular aircraft had been sold by the Russians as surplus, and according to all the official records had been scrapped a year ago.
“We’re ready, Captain,” said Sergeant Ibn. “The pilot would like to take off as soon as possible.”
Their destination was a point exactly thirteen miles south of Omara, a small city on the western Pakistani coast. The submarines would disembark and proceed to another point thirty miles away, rendezvousing with the other two subs, which had been deposited the day before. Together, they would proceed to their next target—an oil terminal in the port of Karachi.
“Yes, we should go,” said Sattari, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t afraid of the Indians, let alone the Pakistanis. But the Americans—the Americans were waiting for him. He’d cheated them the other night, hadn’t he? Now they would want revenge.
They had undone his father, stripping him of the weapon that would have made him the most powerful man in Iran. Now he was a mere toady of the black robes.
That was unfair. He hadn’t been their messenger the other day—more like a father shielding his son. And in truth, the imams had not done wrong by Sattari personally—their slanderous lies behind his back excepted.
“Let us go,” said Sattari, shouldering his rifle. “Fate awaits us.”
Aboard the Shiva,
in the northern Arabian Sea
13 January 1998
0130
MEMON WOKE TO A SERIES OF LOUD RAPS AT THE CABIN DOOR. Disoriented, he could not interpret the sound or even remember where he was. Then a voice from behind the door called his name.
“Deputy Minister Memon? Sir, are you awake?”
“Yes,” said Memon.
“The admiral had me call for you.”
Memon pushed himself upright. “I’m awake,” he said.
“Aircraft from the Chinese carrier Deng Xiaoping have been spotted,” said the man. “The admiral wanted you to know. He’s on the bridge.”
“I’m coming,” said Memon.
Aboard the Wisconsin,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0130
THE SITREP SCREEN MADE THE SITUATION BELOW LOOK ALMOST placid. That was the strength and weakness of sensors, Colonel Bastian thought as he surveyed the scene; they couldn’t quite account for the spitting and hissing.
The Deng Xiaoping had sailed day and night at top speed; it was now within fifty miles of the Indian carrier Shiva. Dish, working the surface radar, added that the ships were both turned into the wind, making it easier for them to launch and recover aircraft.
“Thanks, Dish,” said Dog. “T-Bone, we have all their aircraft?”
“Roger that, Colonel. Four J-13s from the Deng, split into two orbits, one roughly five miles and the other fifteen from the carrier in the direction of the Shiva. There’s another two-ship of J-13s over the carrier as an air patrol, and a helicopter with airborne radar. Indians have two Su-33s riding out to meet them. They have two other aircraft over their carrier. The two Pakistani F-16s I told you about earlier are well to the east now; they should be running home soon to refuel. Haven’t spotted their replacements yet.”
“Cantor, you see those Indian Flankers?” Dog asked.
“Just coming into range now, Colonel.”
“Keep your distance, but don’t let them get between you and the Wisconsin.”
“Copy that, Wisconsin.”
Dog checked the sitrep. They were to the west of both carriers and their aircraft. He tapped the Dreamland Command channel and updated Eyes. The Abner Read’s executive officer once more reminded him that he was not to interfere with the other ships “no matter what.”
“I get the message,” said Dog.
CANTOR WATCHED THE SU-33 GROW IN HIS VIEW SCREEN, waiting until the aircraft was exactly three miles away to start his turn. By watching Mack’s mission tapes as well as those from his own encounters, he’d determined that was the sweet spot—far enough away so the Sukhoi pilot couldn’t detect him, but close enough so that no last second maneuver could get him free. The Flighthawk swung through a tight arc, crossing behind the Sukhoi. The separation at the end of the turn was about a mile—close enough for a sustained burst from the Flighthawk cannon.
And it had to be sustained. Mack had gotten bullets into all of the fighters he’d faced, but taken none of them down. The Russian-made craft were even tougher than advertised.
But the Sukhoi pilot had no idea the Flighthawk was tagging along right behind it. It had a dead spot behind its tail, and unless his wingman flew very close, the Flighthawk was almost impossible to detect. Mack figured he could stay there all night.
“American aircraft, you are ordered to remove yourself from our vicinity,” said the Indian carrier, broadcasting over all frequencies. The transmission was directed at the Wisconsin, not Hawk One, which couldn’t be seen by the carrier from this distance, a little over fifty miles away. Cantor heard Jazz tell the carrier blandly that they were in international waters and were on a routine patrol. He drew out his words matter-of-factly; Cantor thought he could be telling his wife that he’d bring home a bottle of milk.
Cantor nudged his throttle, easing toward the Su-33 as he continued to probe its weaknesses. By relying solely on the Megafortress’s radar, he was depriving the Indians of any indication that he was there.
The problem wasn’t shooting one of the Flankers down—he could do tha
t easily. The difficulty was taking two. The Su-33 could easily outaccelerate the Flighthawk because of its larger engines. So the trick would be to get ridiculously close before starting the first attack.
And to fire without using the radar. Because once he turned the weapons radar on, they would know something was there.
The Flighthawk cannon could fire in a pure bore-sight mode—basically, point the nose and shoot—though in a three-dimensional knife fight it made little sense to give up the advantage of having the computer help aim the shots. But get this close—under a hundred yards—he couldn’t miss, especially if he took the aircraft from below. Counterintuitive—it meant he had to climb against an aircraft that could easily outclimb him. But doable maybe, if he got off at least two long bursts before jabbing his radar on and gunning for the other plane, which would be over to his right. By the time the second plane caught on, it would be flying right into his aiming cue.
Cantor glanced at the sitrep and saw that the Megafortress was nearing the end of its patrol orbit. He tilted his wing down and slid away, still undetected by Indian radar or eyeballs.
“Until we meet again,” he told the Flankers as they rumbled on.
Las Vegas University of Medicine,
Las Vegas, Nevada
1200
THE BLOOD SAMPLE WAS THE LAST STRAW.
They’d spent all morning taking scans whose results Zen could tell from the faces of the technicians were disappointing. Vasin appeared briefly, asked for some blood samples, then went off to a meeting.
The nurse tasked to get the sample kept muttering that she couldn’t find the vein, then jabbing him and apologizing as she came up empty.
“It’s right there,” Zen told her.
“I’m trying,” she said, jabbing him again. “I’m sorry.”
What the hell was he doing here when Breanna needed him on the other side of the world?
The nurse finally managed to get the needle in correctly and filled up three test tubes. Zen made up his mind as he watched the third tube fill up. The nurse pulled out the needle, taped a gauze in place, then apologized for having had so many problems.
“It’s OK.” Zen waited for her to leave, then began changing from the gown to his civilian clothes.
“Jeff, what are doing?” asked Dr. Vasin.
“Getting dressed. I thought you were at a meeting.”
“It was just postponed. Why are you getting dressed?”
“I’m not sure this is working—”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Yeah, but—” Zen stopped himself. He couldn’t tell Vasin why he was worried about his wife; the mission was classified. “I’m just getting bored.”
“At this stage in the process—a very difficult time,” said Vasin. “But you don’t want to stop now.”
“Why?”
“As I explained, once the process begins—”
“Nothing’s happened.”
“Of course not.”
“The tests aren’t going well. I could tell from everyone’s reactions.”
“We must give it time. Once the process begins, stopping in the middle—it is worse than rolling the clock back. Come—let’s go have a little lunch, you and I. A little change of pace. They’re having chicken pilaf in the cafeteria. A very good dish.”
“All right,” agreed Zen finally. “All right.”
Off the coast of Pakistan,
near Karachi
0135
CAPTAIN SATTARI UNFOLDED HIMSELF FROM HIS SEAT AND made his way to the rear of the midget submarine, trying to stretch out the cramps in his leg.
His men had been remarkably quiet for the past twenty-four hours. It seemed to him that traveling in the midget submarine was by far the hardest task they had. The rest would be simplicity itself compared to this.
He tapped each man’s shoulder as he walked, nodding. They were professionals, these men; he couldn’t see their anticipation in the dim light, much less their fears or apprehensions. The faces they showed to their commander—to the world, if it looked—were of hard stone. Warriors’ faces.
As was his.
“We have to surface to check our position,” said the submarine commander when he returned to his seat at the front of the small sub. “There are no ships nearby. I suggest we do so now.”
“Yes,” said Sattari. He sat in his seat as the midget submarine’s bow began nosing gently upward. Originally designed as a pleasure boat for sightseeing trips, the Parvaneh could make no abrupt moves. But this helped her in her mission. Rapid movement in the sea translated into sound, and the louder a vessel, the more vulnerable it was to detection.
The helmsman leveled the boat off three meters below the surface. The periscope went up slowly. The screen at the control station showed an image so dark that at first the captain thought there was something wrong with the tiny video camera mounted on the telescoping rod.
“Nothing,” said the captain to Sattari. “Just blackness.”
Sattari nodded. Next the submarine captain raised a radio mast. Three triangular antennas were mounted on the wand. Two were used to pick up GPS, global positioning signals, from satellites. The third scanned for nearby radio signals, a warning device that would let them know if a ship or aircraft was nearby.
“We are three miles from Karachi,” announced the submarine commander. “We’re ahead of schedule.”
“Very good,” said Sattari.
“There are no ships near us. Would you like to surface?”
A short respite on the surface would be welcome. To breathe fresh air, if only for a moment—Sattari was tempted to say yes, and felt the eyes of the others staring at him, hoping.
But it would increase the risk of being spotted. They were too close now, too close.
“No. We will have fresh air soon enough. Push on,” Sattari said.
Aboard the Levitow,
over the northern Arabian Sea
0243
BREANNA IGNORED THE CHALLENGE FROM THE CHINESE AIRCRAFT, staying on course in Pakistani coastal waters. She had to drop a buoy soon or risk losing the inputs from the Piranha, which was trailing the submarine following the Chinese aircraft carrier. But she didn’t want to drop the buoy while the J-13s were nearby; it might tip off the Chinese to the fact that the submarine was being followed.
“Levitow, this is Piranha,” said Ensign English. “Bree, I can’t stay with the submarine much longer. I’m slowing the Piranha down, but the submarine will sail out of range within a half hour.”
“All right, I have an idea,” Breanna told her. “Flighthawk leader, can you run Hawk Three south about eighteen miles and pickle a flare?”
“Repeat?” said Mack.
“I want to get the J-13s off my back. They’ll shoot over to check out the flares, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Throw some chaff, too, so their radars know something’s there. Let’s do it quick—we don’t have much time.”
“I’m going, Captain. Keep your blouse on.”
Breanna shook her head, then glanced at her copilot. Stewart was doing a little better than she had the other day, keeping track of the Chinese patrols as well as a flight of Pakistani F-16s that were roughly twenty minutes flying time to their north. But Stewart still had a ways to go. The copilot in the EB-52 had a great deal to do; in some respects her job was actually harder than the pilot’s. In a B-52 four crewmen worked the navigational and weapons systems. Computers aboard the EB-52 might have taken over a great deal of their work, but someone still had to supervise the computers.
“How you doing, Jan?”
“I’m with you.”
“I’m going to have Mack toss some flares south of us. Hopefully the J-13s will go in that direction and we can drop a buoy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m going to take us down through three thousand feet so we’re ready to drop the buoy. When I give you the signal, I want you to hit the ECMs—I’m going to ma
ke it look like we’re reacting to the flares that Mack lights, as if we’re worried about being under attack. Then you launch. All right?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Are you all right, Captain?”
“I’m all right!”
Breanna turned her attention back to the sky in front of her, lining up for the buoy drop.
MACK POINTED HIS NOSE TOWARD THE SKY AND RODE THE Flighthawk south. Neither of the Chinese J-13s dogging the Megafortress followed. The Chinese navy had encountered Flighthawks before, and referred to them as “Lei Gong”—the name of an ancient Chinese thunder god, which Mack supposed was a compliment. But it wasn’t clear from the J-13s’ actions whether they knew he was there.
Mack continued to climb, meanwhile plotting out what he would do. The Chinese aircraft carrier was thirty-two miles away, off his right wing as he flew south. Karachi was ten miles almost directly opposite his left wing. The Indian aircraft carrier was about fifty miles south from the Chinese carrier. An assortment of small escorts were scattered between them, including the Chinese submarine, which was submerged south of Karachi in Pakistani waters.
“All right, Bree, light show begins in ten seconds,” he said, reaching his mark. “Get ready.”
“Make it a good one.”
“SUKHOIS—I MEAN, J-13S, THE CHINESE PLANES—THEY’RE biting for it. They’re going south,” said Stewart, eyes pasted to the radar plot.
“Buoys!” said Breanna.
Stewart tapped the panel to ready a control buoy for the Piranha. She missed the box and had to tap it again.
Why was everything so hard on this deployment? Back at Dreamland she’d done this sort of thing with her eyes closed. She’d driven B-1s through sandstorms and everything else without a single problem. But she was all thumbs now.
Maybe it was Captain Stockard, breathing down her neck. Breanna just didn’t like her for some reason. Maybe she resented working for another woman.
“Buoy!”
